


Shut Eye

by Just_Rocket_Science



Category: The Lord of the Rings - All Media Types, The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Comfort, Gen, One-Shot, Other, basically just Sauron making a sympathy play to try and get Frodo on his side, dream meeting, except it kinda turns geniune, melkor/mairon is implied but it doesn't have to be read as romantic, what if if Frodo and Sauron met
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-18
Updated: 2020-08-18
Packaged: 2021-03-05 22:48:04
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,038
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25973149
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Just_Rocket_Science/pseuds/Just_Rocket_Science
Summary: Frodo has a dream.
Relationships: Frodo Baggins & Sauron | Mairon
Comments: 8
Kudos: 31





	Shut Eye

**Author's Note:**

> I'm sure that this has been done many times before but yea. I might write more about these two because I think that there was great potential in them getting to know eachother which was,,,, kinda wasted. Also this is my first time writing Frodo so let's see just how OOC he is lol
> 
> Title from the song of the same name.

The light of the campfire sent scintillating shadows swirling across Frodo’s face. His skin was paler than usual tonight; the journey had drained him, and the claws of the ring tore ever at his heart, slowly but surely draining his resolve and leading him away from his companions and into the darkness of the shadows. It was difficult to fall asleep on such occasions, as a part of Frodo’s mind feared that if he drifted off, he might be lost forever and awaken instead as a mindless wraith. Despite his reservations, however, the soft breathing of his companions and the crackle of logs in the campfire lulled his mind, and he was unable to prevent his eyelids from fluttering closed. The last thing he saw before he closed his eyes was the light of the fire, not a burning, furious inferno like the Eye that haunted Frodo’s every step, but a gentle glow. The flames were almost like dancers, throwing their arms about, leaping to and fro with that mirthful laughter that only elves seemed to be capable of. They were a promise that, no matter how hungry the darkness was, there would always be light in this world. This thought chased Frodo’s troubled musings away long enough for him to feel peace overtake him, and the young hobbit finally, finally fell asleep.

When he opened his eyes again, he was standing in the middle of a path through a forest. He had no memory of travelling to such a place, and thus inferred that this must be a dream. If it was a dream, though, it was certainly a realistic one; Frodo could almost smell the scent of fresh leaves and dirt, that dewy, musky odor that curled comfortingly through almost every forest. It was night, and though Frodo usually found forests at night to be ominous places, something about the friendly, silver twinkling of the moon and stars above him made it impossible to be scared. Their light touched everything in the forest, filtering through the heavy canopy and spreading out across the forest floors to brush its velvety fingertips across the edge of every leaf and stone. Frodo had never seen light behave in such a way before, yet it was such a perfect image that he could not bring himself to be nervous over it. Even when he looked at the long, seemingly unending path in front of him, it did not seem daunting in the slightest. In fact, on the contrary, it almost beckoned him forwards. And Frodo listened. The earth was soft under his feet. There were no dips nor mounds in the dirt like a regular path, and now that Frodo looked around him, it seemed there was not a single twig out of place in the forest either. It was unnaturally perfect, just like the behaviour of the light. At that, Frodo may have felt a sliver of trepidation, but it was quickly washed away by the realization that this unending path was not quite so unending after all. It led to a clearing. Frodo quickened his pace when he saw this, eager to find out where this unusual dream was leading him. As unnervingly real as this all felt, at least it was better than the nightmares that had been plaguing his mind in recent times. His feet finally found their way into the clearing. It was surrounded by an ordered ring of trees that bore gorgeous blooms of pure white. Their scent was delightfully sweet, though Frodo knew not how it was carried to his nose, as there was not even the slightest breeze in this strange place. The clearing was blessed with a blanket of moonlight that turned everything to silver until he felt as though he was wandering in a realm bleached of its colors. Perhaps that was why he did not notice the person at first. When he did, however, he hesitated. Something about all of this felt so unnaturally real that Frodo was just as reluctant to speak to a stranger as he would have been in the waking world. But he breathed in slowly, telling himself in a firm voice that this was all just a dream, and stepped into the clearing, letting the moonlight drain him of color and wash his face in angelic silver. The person was sitting on a marble bench with their back to Frodo, who coughed, then cleared his throat in that sharply polite way that only hobbits seemed to be capable of. The person stiffened, then turned their head, and Frodo saw that it appeared to be a man. No- not a man. An elf. The elf’s pointed ears twitched, as if trying to determine where the sound had come from. He was wearing a blindfold, an ornate, gilded one dripping with gold and delicate embroidery. But a blindfold nonetheless. His hair was pure white and came to his shoulders, though the edges were uneven as though hacked away with a blade. His skin, too, was pure white, making him appear as though he were a statue carved from ivory, some artist’s work instead of a living person. He was dressed in robes that matched his blindfold, shadowy black fabric embroidered with gold at the hems, almost transparent around his neck so that Frodo could see strange letters carved into his chest. He swallowed, already regretting his decision to enter the clearing. But the stranger had heard him, and it would be rude to turn back now.

“Who are you?” Frodo blurted out softly, then winced at his own bluntness, “A-apologies. That was rude of me.” The elf twitched his ears once more.

“There is no need to apologize for speaking your thoughts,” He finally said. His voice had a strange, foreign quality to it, drawing out the consonants and skipping over the vowels where most people would do the opposite. Though his tone was almost songlike, lilting, there was a delicately harsh undertone to his speech that implied that he was used to speaking a far rougher language. Frodo wasn’t sure how to reply, so he nodded, then realized that the elf could probably not see through the blindfold.

“Are you blind?” He almost asked, then caught himself just in time, cursing at his own tactlessness. His Uncle Bilbo had raised him better than this. But the elf seemed to have understood what he had been about to say, because he replied,

“No. I simply see in a different way than you.” There was a certain venom to his otherwise light voice that made Frodo believe that he had not always been this way. Encouraged by the fact that the elf seemed amiable enough, he crept forwards, seating himself on the bench beside the other. The marble was cold, chilling Frodo’s bones until he shifted uncomfortably. The elf seemed to sense that the hobbit was now in closer proximity towards him, because he stiffened, turning his head forwards once more. There was a certain awkwardness in the air, at least for Frodo, so he finally broke the silence with a tentative voice.

“Jolly nice forest you have here. I certainly like the flowers, a very pleasant touch, Mr..?”

“If you are asking me what my name is, ringbearer, I am afraid I have no answer for you. I have many names, most of which have been lost in time.” Perhaps due to the fact that this was a dream, or because it was an elf and they generally seemed knowledgeable concerning such things, Frodo did not question how he knew of the burden he carried. Yet, almost instinctively, he reached up a hand to grasp the Ring hung around his neck. It’s gold was reassuring, and he gathered up the courage to inquire further.

“Could you not at least tell me whatever name you prefer to use? I must admit that it vexes me greatly to have to refer to someone as ‘the elf’. Something awfully debasing about it that I simply can’t bear.” The elf tilted his head sideways in a fashion that reminded Frodo of a young hound stumbling upon something new.

“Mairon, then. You may call me Mairon. And you are Frodo, I believe? I have heard much of you.” Now, Frodo knew enough elvish, taught in short snippets by his Uncle Bilbo, not always willingly on the young hobbit’s part, to understand that Mairon meant Precious, or Admirable. That was certainly a curious name for a person, but out of politeness Frodo decided not to mention it. Or perhaps it was because Precious reminded him of the ring, and speaking the word out loud sent shivers down his spine.

“That’s certainly a wonderful name. And you are correct, I am Frodo. It is certainly strange to hear that others have heard of me,” He replied with a finishing laugh. That was unusual. Ever since the Council of Elrond, he had found that he simply had not the energy to laugh, but now a weight appeared to have been lifted from his shoulders and the sound came freely to his lips. Mairon did not answer, staring directly in front of him instead. Frodo followed his expression, and almost jumped when he found that it led to a statue tucked in a bush and tangled with vines. Presumably due to the moonlight turning everything to the same silvery color, he had not noticed it before. The statue was missing a head, and had been chipped and worn through the ages. The rough stone of which it was hewn had withered with time. In fact, it was the only thing in the forest that did not exude that unnatural sense of perfection that Frodo had grown almost used to. From the way Mairon was gazing at the statue with his head tipped to the side, Frodo could almost believe that he could see it.

“Who’s that?” He whispered, cautious to break the thick silence. Mairon paused, and Frodo worried that he had somehow angered the elf. It was impossible to tell how he was feeling underneath the blindfold.

“My master, although I suppose we behaved more as equals than was appropriate,” He said eventually, his tone flat.

“Master? As in of a- well-” Frodo frowned; saying that would certainly anger the elf, if he wasn’t already annoyed over Frodo’s several missteps.

“A slave? No, more of a willing servant, I suppose.”

“Oh,” Frodo said, because he wasn’t quite sure what else to say. Then, hesitantly, “What happened to him?”

“They took him from me. And now, I am trying to get him back.” It seemed as though there was supposed to be more hatred in Mairon’s voice at that, but he simply sounded defeated, tired. Broken, almost, like he too had been worn away at with the same hammer of time that slowly eroded the statue. Frodo fidgeted with his hands in discomfort.

“Perhaps I could try to help you get him back? I am not too sure what I could do, but you seem like a nice person and I do hate to see anyone suffer in such a way.”

“There is something you could do, actually.” Mairon turned his head downwards to look at Frodo, and the hobbit was almost certain that he could somehow see him. Mairon was tall and lithe, even by elvish standards, and for the first time since stepping into this dream Frodo felt a spike of fear.

“And.... what is that?” He asked, clasping his hands in his lap for lack of something better to do with them.

“The Ring, Frodo. Give me the Ring.” Mairon’s voice had fully dissolved into a harsher tone now, a wolflike growl in his throat. Frodo jumped up off the bench, backing away with the Ring clutched firmly in one hand against his chest. His heart thudded.

“No. I must destroy it.” He said, voice trembling. He was expecting Mairon to leap after him, perhaps try to take the Ring by force, but the elf did no such thing, instead simply turning his head away expressionlessly. He reached up to his face with fragile, double jointed fingers that would have served a magician well, and unhooked the blindfold. Frodo noticed that he was missing a finger, an angry gash on otherwise perfect skin. The golden tassels on the blindfold swayed to and fro like the edges of a flame, and he lowered it from his face, letting it drop onto his lap, a fiery dissonance against the darkness of his robes. Frodo, despite his reservations, was enraptured, creeping closer with the Ring still held protectively in his hand. Mairon was beautiful. Not in an attractive way, but in the same way a statue or a painting would be considered beautiful. His eyes were pale amber, bleached of color just like his skin, yet there was a smouldering ember within them that hinted that his gaze once burned all those who dared meet his eye. His pupils contracted at the sudden onslaught of light, pits of darkness in the midst of fire. There were dark circles under his eyes that spoke of many sleepless nights, their shadow a deep contrast with the dying sparks of his gaze. He looked exhausted, and when he spoke his voice was strained, as though this entire time he had barely been holding off a sudden onslaught of weariness that had been slowly consuming him in the same way that the Ring had slowly been consuming Frodo.

“Destroy it if you must then; I cannot say that I have the energy to care anymore. But my orders were to take over the world in my Master’s stead, and I would not disobey him for the world. I will try to stop you. But if you still intend to be rid of it, then be quick about it, for I fear I cannot live in this tiredness nor resist the pain of my torn soul any longer.” Somehow, the fear was gone from Frodo. He sat back down next to Mairon - or Sauron, as he realized with a jolt of surprise.

“It is strange, you know; I had never truly thought of you as a person. Now I simply wish that there could be some way to make you better - surely no one is completely beyond the reach of good?” Sauron simply shook his head.

“That is the voice of a fool. There is no saving me now; I am forever chained to my Master and my insatiable need for perfection. With time, however, I have found that nothing can ever be perfect, and I now realise that I have wasted my life on an unattainable goal. So there is only him left. But I was not able to bring him back even at the height of my power, so there is nothing. I have no purpose, and a servant with no purpose is perhaps the saddest thing of them all.” He had drawn his legs up to his chest while talking, resting his head on his knees, his gaze tipped to the side as if staring at something in the distance, beyond the reach of mortal perception. Frodo pondered this, eventually coming up with an answer.

“Is that why this forest is like this? Because if you were trying to make it perfect? If so, I'm pretty sure you’ve accomplished it.” 

“He used to tell me the same thing. That I had already achieved perfection. But it was never enough for me; I have always seen the flaws that no one else could. In the beginning, it served me well, and even later on whenever I was with him I could usually let go, but now I simply wish I could be free of my senses so I could stop stressing about every tiny detail, so I could just _relax_ , but it- it- I can’t-” He buried his face against his knees one more, shaking softly, his pale hair falling in curtains about him. Frodo realised he was crying. That was certainly a surprise, and the hobbit hesitated, unsure of what to do. Eventually he pulled the Ring from his neck, holding it out to Sauron.

“If you swear an oath that you’ll stop hurting people, and you’ll use it only to bring your Master back, I could give it back.” Sauron lifted his head, blinking in surprise. His tears were golden drops of molten metal, and when they dripped down his face they burned him, leaving twisted trails behind them. He spoke reluctantly.

“That is the problem. I cannot bring him back, even with the Ring. I am simply not- not good enough. So the only thing left for me to do now is fulfill his last order, that of world domination. And perhaps when I have achieved that, I shall destroy the Ring myself, for I shall have no more purpose in Middle-Earth anymore.” Frodo put the chain back around his neck, frowning.

“I am sorry you feel that way. And I am more sorry that I can’t seem to help you.”

“Do not be sorry, little one, for I was doomed the moment I laid eyes on him. I have long since accepted that.” Sauron replied softly, and for the first time Frodo saw a sad smile grace his expression. “And, for the record, I greatly appreciate that you believe my forest to be perfect.” A veil of mist seemed to have come over Frodo’s eyes, obscuring Sauron’s sharp features and blurring the forest around them. The world was spinning, a splash of silvery colors where before there had been shapes. Frodo tried to speak, but his voice sounded faint, even to his own ears, and he had to shout to be heard through the fog.

“What was his name?” The forest was fading, dissolving into nothingness, the light of the moon cut off and Frodo’s surroundings reduced to a swirling blur of white and grey. Just before he awoke to Sam shaking his shoulders and the rest of his companions preparing for another day of trekking, he heard Sauron’s reply ringing in his ears, a melodic voice torn with sorrow yet filled with adoration for the words it spoke,

“Melkor. His name was Melkor.”

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading, comments are greatly appreciated! <3


End file.
